


Survivors In Silver Skin

by elysichor



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Bucky slowly healing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, sound sensitivity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:38:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elysichor/pseuds/elysichor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally, Bucky has been found and taken in by SHIELD.  He's being treated and taken care of...but will he ever really be Bucky Barnes again?  Just how badly did Hydra hurt him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the lyrics of Introduced Species by Hands Like Houses

He dreamed of red.

Red was the insignia on the sharp, crisp uniforms of his handlers, the one spot of color on their bodies that his eyes were always, always drawn to.  It was fitting; as they were chaining him or moving him or doing something to his head that made him groggy and confused, he would stare at the one clear reminder of exactly who was doing this to him.  He didn’t escape it in his dreams (no, nightmares; he didn’t _dream_ ); it followed him always, as much staring at him as he did it, and it made him feel vulnerable.

Red was the ocean that flowed from the necks of his victims, washing over his boots and baptizing him in the scent of death.  Every night he waded into a sea of blood, walking further and further until it was over his head and he was choking on the metallic taste of his sin.  Every time he knew how it would end, but every time he was powerless to stop himself from wading in.  Sometimes he woke up with the taste in his mouth, and he would vomit from the confused horror and disgust he felt until it was gone.

Red was the star on Hydra’s arm (the left one, not his right, which had been injured by his Mission and stayed injured to this day), the damned emblem emblazoned so proudly across him, marking him as Hydra’s property.  Hydra’s asset.  Hydra’s weapon.  He couldn’t escape it, not even when he woke up.  All he had to do was turn his head or look in the mirror and the sharp, evil color would scream his crimes at him.

He stopped turning his head.  He stopped looking in the mirror.  Eventually he stopped turning on the lights.  And leaving his room.

When the sun finally rose and announced that his nightly torture was over, he would lie there for hours, shaking, silent tears leaking from his face.  He didn’t even have the company of another human being (if he even was one anymore) to distract himself; SHIELD had deemed him a code red threat—how fitting—and isolated him in his own prison designed as a comfortable home.  He had a bathroom, a bedroom, and a widened hallway between the two that someone had hastily squeezed a couch and a houseplant into, as if in a last-ditch effort to make the place look less like a prison.  For a while he watered the plant, because it was something to do, because it was the only life he was apparently trusted with, but despite this the leaves browned and withered and died.  Of course.

After the plant died he was desperate for something to do, because he needed _something_ to distract from the constant burning, jittery sensation he had.  It felt like every beat of his heart was pumping poison through his veins; he was always shaky, jumpy, felt like he was on fire inside and out and it never stopped.  He was losing his mind, or what was left of it; he had to be.  Sometimes, out of nowhere, intense fear would grip him.  He would feel completely trapped in his apartment, and he would blunder through it, searching desperately for a way out.  He never screamed, though.  They’d trained him too well.

He never was able to escape.  The only door into his prison was five inches thick, steel, and had an electric current running across the surface at all times.  The walls looked like ordinary drywall, but he figured if he ever plunged his arm into one, he’d be electrocuted.  Sometimes he seriously considered it.

The door was sort of important to him, because it allowed the only glimpse of other people he ever got.  Three times a day a loud buzzer sounded (God, it scared him so _bad_ , every time, but what was he supposed to do?  Ask them to turn the volume down?), a person on the other side (he never saw their faces, he didn’t think he’d seen an uncovered face in years) would push the tray through a locking compartment, and then he would approach, open his side of the compartment, and remove the tray.  They wouldn’t feed him if he was anywhere but his bedroom, and although he wasn’t given a clock he had learned about what times of day they usually came; he would step inside his room and watch the door, like a trained dog.  Not much had changed, then.

And then, all at once, it did.

He hadn’t gotten up to eat for a week; he didn’t care anymore.  If he had the strength he would have revisited his idea of punching through the wall, but he figured a death that took the least effort and did the least damage possible was the one that SHIELD would mind the least.  Quick, silent, easy to clean up.  Less of a chance of them trying to stop him.  He was beginning to memorize the pattern of the wall, lying on his side facing the doorway.  This forced him to lay on the side of his dislocated shoulder, which was hell, but he did this for two reasons: first, because wreckage from his last and final mission had pierced his lower left side and left a wound more painful than his shoulder.  Second, because he should never have his back to the door.

The first few days he stayed in bed, they still brought him meals, silently picking up the untouched trays and replacing them with new ones.  When they brought him his evening meal on the third day he heard muffled voices, and _that_ almost got him to sit up—they never talked around him.

More nights filled with half-sleep and red terrors, and then the buzzer (that damn _buzzer_ oh Christ made him wanna claw at himself and scream) rang, announcing the morning meal.  Again he ignored it; by now he was so hungry his stomach had gone sort of numb, so it was easier to bear.

The sixth day was the same, meal after meal brought and taken back; he stayed where he was, staring blankly ahead at the wall, focusing on the sound of his breathing so he had something to occupy his mind.  He wished he could just fall asleep and never wake up, but without the nightmares; the nightmares were ten times worse than lying here starving himself to death, even with his body shaking and burning and sweating and _needing_ , that awful unnamable _needing_ that was worse than the hunger.

There was no buzzer for the morning meal on the seventh day—in fact, there was no morning meal at all—and his body, tensed in anticipation of it like always, relaxed in relief.  Good.  They’d finally given up.  They were going to let him go quietly, without a fight.  He didn’t know exactly how long it would take, but he was so badly destroyed in so many ways, maybe it wouldn’t be long.  He finally allowed himself to close his eyes.

The door opened.

At first he didn’t know what that horrible sharp, scraping, whining noise was; it was nearly as bad as the buzzer, though, and he contracted in a ball, pressing a hand over his ear reflexively; his right arm hurt with every movement and he didn’t even try covering his other ear with it.  God, he just wanted to be left alone, why couldn’t they give him that?  They didn’t want him alive, _he_ didn’t want him alive, so why did they insist on bothering him?

Then he heard voices, no longer muffled by the door’s steel.  They were faint, almost echoing, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thought, _‘Good, they’re here to end it quickly.’_ They were gracious.  He saw with blurry, unsteady vision four silhouettes standing in the hallway, and for the first time he smiled.

“God, he’s a mess.”

“He did this to himself.”

“You gonna tell the Captain that?  Let me know, I wanna be there to see him finally punch a civilian.”

A couple of short laughs, and then two of them stepped up to his doorway.

“Shit, is he dead?”

“Nah,” was the reply, but it sounded uncertain.  Very faintly, he could hear footsteps sneaking across his floor, up to his bed.  Very slowly, he turned his head to look at the person, a dark, scrawny guy in a uniform—always uniforms.  This one was different from the Hydra uniforms, though.  As soon as he moved, the guy backed up quickly and said, “Oh yeah, he’s alive.”

“He gonna try anything?”

A hesitant pause, and the scrawny guy answered, “I don’t think so.  He’s pretty fucked up.”

“You’re on duty.  Language.”

“Oh, but _you_ can say sh—”

“Can you assholes focus?” came a third, deeper voice.  “We take any longer and the Captain’s gonna be in here himself, and we don’t want that.”

There was a loud sigh and the sound of something heavy being shifted; the asset turned his head just a bit more in time to see a freckled woman heft some sort of weapon to her shoulder, take aim at him, and fire with a blast that blew the buzzer right out of the water.

Something hit his leg and it hurt, bad—but then, suddenly, he was fading, finally going unconscious, oh thank God, he was going to die.  He was going into the darkness in peace.

***

At first he thought the bright light was supernatural—that maybe he’d actually been allowed access to whatever came after death.  Then he realized Hell probably didn’t smell like antiseptic and latex.

He opened his eyes and they immediately fluttered shut against the burning assault of the light above him.  It was a standard ceiling light—obnoxious, ugly, bright, the kind he’d seen thousands of times before.

So he was still alive.

He turned his head slowly, as much as his pained neck would allow, and saw stark, white walls and metal.  Lots of metal.  Tables, tools, instruments, all laid out for him to gaze upon and wonder what they were for.  The harsh, raw light drowned out any color or substance that the room might have had, disinfecting it as thoroughly as any chemical.  He shifted and felt leather straps dig into his arms, his legs, his torso, holding him firmly in place.  Even this didn’t scare him.

The asset had been in rooms like this plenty of times, and he wasn’t scared because he knew exactly what to expect.  A team of people, anonymous under uniforms and masks, would enter silently, moving about the room deliberately, never wasting a second.  Most of the time their focus was on Hydra’s arm; he was never really sure what they were doing to it, because they never spoke and he was always too out of it to even think to look over and watch.  He would always stare straight up at the ceiling, letting the lights burn those red-brown-purple-yellow spots into his vision that he still saw for hours after every time he blinked.  He hadn’t fought them in years; every time he did, they jabbed something into his thigh, and he lost the battle as he sank into unconsciousness.  It wasted less energy to just sit there and let them work.

He figured it would be much the same thing this time, that SHIELD perhaps wanted to examine Hydra’s arm, or maybe dissect him.  Or maybe this was an execution room and he was on death row.  Either way, he didn’t plan on struggling.  He didn’t care enough to try and survive.  Actually, it was more than that—he would gladly assist in any way he could.

He waited patiently.  No one came.

Every so often he would shift on the table, edging the straps slightly up or down or side to side so they weren’t digging into him quite as badly, and he would glance down at the door to see if anyone was outside it.  No one was.  He lay there on the table for so long he’d actually started to fall asleep when finally, they entered.  There were four of them, all dressed exactly how he knew they’d be: in the sickening green that he had long since associated with pain.

The doctors he’d had contact with in the past had always worked as quickly as possible, moving from task to task and wasting no time inbetween.  These four were different; they took their time, talking in murmurs to each other as they picked up tools, examined them, set them back down again.

“We’re just giving him a physical?”

“Yeah, that’s what they told me.”

“What’s all this crap for, then?”

“Hell, I dunno.  They had the aides set the room up.  Maybe in case we find something.”

The four of them eventually walked over to him, staring, watching, keeping their distance.  They needn’t have worried; he’d been trained too well to start fighting now.

“You said his shoulder’s dislocated?”

“Yeah, the Captain wrote up a long thing about all the stuff he think’s wrong with this guy.  He dislocated it himself, so we’re sure on that—he also thinks there was tampering with his memory, maybe psychotropic drugs or something.  Then he was kept in solitary for two months, SHIELD didn’t even give him a checkup.  Basically, be prepared for anything.”

One of the doctors stepped closer, slowly, and placed his hands on the asset’s flesh arm.  The asset didn’t even flinch, and the doctor took this as a positive sign; he gingerly applied pressure with his fingers, feeling up and down the arm.  Every touch sent a bolt of pain through him, but he knew better than to show it.  Showing pain was weakness, made one vulnerable, and deserved punishment.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” the doctor asked, and it was a moment before the asset realized with a shock that he was being spoken to.  He frowned and opened his mouth, but closed it again.  He’d never been in this situation, didn’t know the proper way to respond to doctors, so he simply hesitated before shaking his head slowly.  The doctor gave a small laugh.  “Yeah, okay, tough guy.”

This was…off.  The four doctors surrounded him now, putting their hands on him _gently_ , but it made him want to scream.  This wasn’t right.  They weren’t doing their job right, they couldn’t be, and it shouldn’t, but it made him anxious.

“He’s very dehydrated, and the strike team said he hasn’t eaten in a few days.  We’ll wanna get a number four in him before we start on anything.”

“Look here—bruising on the sternum, continues down towards the stomach.  We’ll wanna make sure there’s no major bleeding in there.  Pretty nasty colors you’ve got, you’re a regular Monet.”

Again, they were talking to him.  Again, he didn’t answer.

“Hell, he’s burning up—we’ll wanna get a temperature on him, make sure he’s not in any danger from that.”

“Hey—right here, his lower back.”

The other three crowded next to the first, bending over him and prodding at his side.  God, it hurt, but he remained still.

“Is that…well, damn.”

“Yeah.”

“Captain’s not gonna be happy about this.”

“ _I’m_ not happy about this.”

Even though it made his skin crawl every time they talked to him, he wished they would say what was wrong.  It didn’t matter, of course, but he liked to know the facts.

And then, just like that, they were gone.

They hadn’t done anything more than touch him, look at him, and it was wrong.  They filed out of the room without so much as glancing at Hydra’s arm, and he was more than a little confused.

He was left to think on his confusion for another hour, and then raised voices outside the door startled him.

“You’re _not_ supposed to be here, you need to go—”

“Don’t tell me what I need to do.  I _need_ to see him.”  He knew that voice.  Oh, God, that voice was familiar in the most painful way imaginable, and it made him _panic_.  His heart finally started pounding, and his breathing increased, his eyes widening desperately.  No.  _No_.

“It’s not a good time.”  The asset recognized this voice as one of the doctors from before; he sounded anxious, desperate, just like how he himself felt.  “His condition…”

“All the more reason for me to see him,” the wonderful, terrible voice retorted.  “I’m not gonna take no for an answer.  _Let me in_.”

There was a brief silence, and then the door opened.  The asset kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, on the bright, bright light that he hoped would blind him so he didn’t have to see the person entering his room, walking up to him, standing there and looking at him in a way that he shouldn’t be.

“Hey, Bucky.”

He closed his eyes, his whole body tensing at those two words, spoken so softly and yet cutting so deep.  He wanted to leave, wanted to run and hide, but of course there was no way for him to do that.

The silence was tolerable because he was used to silence, but the presence of this man, his Mission, made him feel…vulnerable.  Weak.  Useless.  This was the man he had failed to kill—this was the man whose life he had _saved,_ the reason he was strapped to this damn table in the first place.

Finally, his Mission took a breath and said in a voice that wavered, “They hurt you pretty bad, huh?”

He didn’t know who ‘they’ was supposed to be—SHIELD?  Hydra?  He had suffered at the hands of both.

“You aren’t gonna talk to me?”

No.  No, he wasn’t going to talk.  He had been too free with his speech before, and he had been punished for it.  Not again.  Never again.

The Mission moved, reaching for something behind the Soldier’s head, and to his shame, he flinched as much as the table’s straps would allow.  Then there was a terrible, horrible screeching noise as his Mission dragged a metal chair across the floor, sitting in it and leaning forward.  He didn’t seem to notice the way the Soldier was shaking now, his teeth gritted as the sound reverberated in his skull.  His Mission said something that went unheard, and when he received no answer he sighed and sat back in his chair.  The Soldier finally opened his eyes, but stared stubbornly at the ceiling.  He wished the doctors would come back and make him leave.  Better yet, he wished he had died in his room before they had thought to bring him here.

“I’m sorry about your shoulder,” his Mission said gently; he just wouldn’t give up speaking.  “I didn’t really have many other options at the time.”

Yes, he did.  He could have killed the asset instead of crippling him.  If he had killed him, there would be no one to pull him out when he went into the water.  They would both be dead and the mission would be complete.  Christ, he loathed his Mission now, as much as he loathed himself.

“Bucky, I’m trying to reach out to you,” the Mission said, and suddenly leaned forward; the asset didn’t flinch this time, but he stiffened and a small, sharp, almost imperceptible sound escaped him.  He set his jaw and—damn—his gaze flickered very briefly to his Mission’s face.

“You recognized me,” the blond man said quietly.  “You knew me.  You _saved_ me.”

The asset took a long, slow breath, exhaled, and murmured quietly, “I wish you had killed me.”

Everything was silent for a long time, the low buzz of the shitty lights seeming to take up the entire room.  Finally, the Mission stood up, pushing the metal chair back (the asset cringed and made a noise in his throat that was drowned out, and damn, it still went unnoticed).  “You’re gonna get better, Buck,” he said quietly.  “I’m gonna help you get better.  I’m gonna get you out of here as soon as possible, and we’ll pick up where we left off, yeah?”

He didn’t even know what that meant, _where we left off_ , but it didn’t matter.  What he did know was that if he ever got out of here, he would do two things.  The first was find a way to complete his mission before he was further compromised, before this man split his mind open and rewrote him as Hydra had done countless times.  The second was to end himself, because he knew he was already changing, couldn’t stop it, was becoming a liability to Hydra.  No—he’d been a liability the moment he was taken prisoner.  A good soldier would have ended it long ago.

“I’ll be back, I promise,” his Mission murmured.  “Don’t worry.”  As if the asset was capable of worry.  As if he cared whether or not this man would return.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder.  He really flinched this time, eyes widening and body seizing up.  He was never touched, not ever.  His handlers never came into contact with him, not even the ones at SHIELD.  No one did unless it was through physical combat, but in those instances, it was on his terms.  He was never helpless like this, never touched gently by someone he was supposed to kill.

“It’s okay,” his Mission said in a soothing voice.  His hand felt like lead, a burning weight on the asset’s shoulder and the only thing in the world he could focus on.  It was different from the doctors touching him.  They touched him because they had to.  His Mission didn’t have to.  So what was he doing?

“I’m going to get you out of here,” he continued.  “I’m going to do everything in my power to get you out as soon as I can, I promise.”

He didn’t care, didn’t care, didn’t _want_ this man’s help, why couldn’t he understand that?  Every kind word or gesture, every pitying look, was cause for shame. 

And then he was gone, leaving reluctantly with a look in his eyes that made the Soldier sick to his stomach.

The asset closed his eyes against the assault of the harsh light and let out a long, slow breath.  Little by little, his heart rate returned to normal.  He was still in pain, still scared, but now he was calm.  Good.

There was no sign of the team of doctors, or of anyone, for that matter.  He was completely alone.  Also good. 

Now he could start planning.


	2. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of Bucky's healing process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's boring and I apologize but thank you for reading anyway

He dreamed of falling.

He fell from the sky; he never knew his starting point, just the pale, thick clouds that he tore through.  Cold was swirling all around him, searing through his flesh and into his bones, and he was utterly helpless as he cut through the air to meet the ground.  He always woke up before he reached it, but somehow, that was no better.

These dreams didn’t happen as often as the others, the ones about blood and murder, but they always caused him to jerk awake in a cold sweat, his heart pounding.  Sometimes the sensation of falling lasted even after he awoke, making him dizzy and nauseous and sending him into a panic almost every time.  This time, the panic was heightened because when his body automatically tried to retract into a ball, it was stopped.

For a moment his mind wildly wondered why he was still restrained on the metal table, but once he’d forced himself to calm down a bit and think, he remembered.  They had taken him from the table.  They had sedated him and taken him from the table, to a room where the walls were mint green and the bed was soft but not comfortable.

He took a deep breath, let it out, took another.  He was better than this.  In an unfamiliar situation he was supposed to observe and rationalize, gather information and use it.  Not panic.  Panicking was weak.

Observation one: it was dark.  He could make out shapes of objects in the room, but other than that, nothing.  That didn’t tell him what time it was, though—if there was a window in the room he couldn’t see it, and it was just as likely they were keeping him confined in darkness to disorient him.

Observation two: he was restrained.  Thick, canvas straps secured his arms and legs firmly, giving little to no room in which to move.  Bicep, forearm, wrist.  Thigh, shin, ankle.  He could sense extra restraints on Hydra’s arm, and he was tempted to test if they would really hold; but this wasn’t the time for that.

Observation three: there was something in his arm.  It didn’t hurt, but he could still feel it, feel the tape securing it there, and he could barely make out the long tube that snaked away from it into the darkness.  There were no monitors or machines in his line of sight, but he knew what it was regardless.

Rationalization: he was still a prisoner, and they were treating him.  Trying to heal him.

This process, breaking down his situation until he could understand it, at least helped calm his panic.  The dream was fading, taking some of his fear with it, though he was still far from comfortable.

Just as his fear ebbed, he became more aware of the _need_ again.  It wasn’t thirst, it wasn’t fever, it was shaking and burning for something he couldn’t understand.  His body ached and _craved_ , and he had no idea how to sate it.  It was nothing new, it came and went; he’d felt like this for weeks, ever since a little while after he’d pulled his Mission from the lake, which was the only way he knew it wasn’t something killing him.

His head was pounding, and he was twisting in his restraints as much as they would allow, desperate for relief.  He wished to God he was falling again.

He lay suffering for hours until sunlight slowly spilled over the windowsill—there was a window after all—and pooled golden across the room.  He wished someone would enter, wished something would happen to distract him or ease his discomfort.

Finally, blessedly, help came in the form of a small, blonde woman in a white coat—a doctor.  She entered alone, carrying a clipboard, and there was a guarded look in her eyes as she approached him, taking care not to get too close.  She was smart.

“How are you feeling?” she asked quietly.  He looked at her for a long moment.  Besides not knowing how the fuck to respond in general, he had no idea how to voice what he was feeling.  He had no idea how to surmise his body’s burning, agonizing need of something he couldn’t name.  Finally, he settled on, “Sick.”  Except he didn’t get sick, so he had no idea if this was accurate or not.  He just knew he felt _bad_.

She nodded once.  “I should think so.  You’ve got a lot going on.  Fever, your shoulder, malnutrition, withdrawal—Hydra had you on one powerful cocktail of chemicals and drugs, and they’re finally leaving your system but they’re not going out without a fight.”

He moved his eyes to the ceiling, and after a moment said quietly, “Make it stop.”  Talking to someone like that, without answering a question and demanding something, was enough to make his heart race.  The last time he’d spoken out of turn…

The doctor glanced at her clipboard and said in the same soft voice, “They’re gonna start you on morphine.  Low doses, enough to take the edge off, but they don’t want you growing dependent on that, either.  We’re actually not even sure if it’ll do anything, you’ve got a very fast metabolism and high resistance to most of the sedatives we’ve tried on you.  You’re really gonna need it eventually, though, so it can’t hurt to try.”

 _Eventually._   He didn’t want to think about what that meant.

“Why am I here?” he asked.  He was surprising both of them with how much he was talking, but he was in too much pain to really care right now.  The doctor chewed her lip for a moment, then replied, “Do you mean in the hospital ward, or in SHIELD’s custody?”

He blinked, somewhat surprised.  He wasn’t sure exactly what he meant, so he stayed silent, dropping his gaze.  The doctor leaned against the foot of his bed, clutching the clipboard to her chest, and said, “You’re in SHIELD’s custody because you’re a terrorist.  Number two on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.”

He considered asking who could possibly be more dangerous than him, then decided he didn’t want to know.  After a moment of silence she continued, “You’re in a hospital ward because, like I said, you’re pretty screwed up.  And SHIELD is kind to their prisoners.”  A pause.  “Usually.”

If that was supposed to unnerve him, it didn’t work.  They couldn’t scare him when he was already always afraid.

***

_“Are you scared?”_

_“’Course not.  I ain’t new to this, you know.”_

_“Believe me, Stevie, I know.  That’s why I asked.”_

***

He didn’t know if the sleep he awoke from was natural or induced; he hoped for the latter, because it meant at least some of their stuff worked on him, and he _needed_ something to stop his hurting.  It was almost funny, in a sick way: he wasn’t in Hydra’s custody anymore, but he was still being pumped full of shit and kept restrained like an animal.  It was just the other side of the same coin.

Once more, he was left guessing what time it was.  His light was on, but the curtains on the window were drawn tightly.  There were no clocks in the room to help him; but he decided it didn’t really matter. 

He moved slightly, pulling against the canvas straps.  Still there, still cinched just as tightly.  Briefly the thought of somehow cinching them _tighter_ until they constricted crossed his mind, and he paused.  The thought was completely irrational; he had no idea where it had come from.  A glitch in his programming, maybe.  He had plenty of those, it seemed.

He stared up at the ceiling for an insurmountable amount of time before his door opened and the doctor reentered.  He hated her, hated everything about her, but he was begrudgingly grateful that everything she did, she did _quietly_.  She moved slowly; not in a cautious, wary way, but more like he himself did.  Calculating.

“It’s 3:23,” she informed him, staying near the door.  “In seven minutes you’re going to be taken to the examination room again.”

When he did nothing but stare stonily at her, she took a few steps closer, to the foot of his bed.  “How is your pain?”

And then, all at once, he realized there was none.  Hesitantly he flexed against the canvas straps again; there was a twinge in his shoulder when it moved, but other than that, nothing.  Even the burning, shaking feeling had subsided greatly. 

The doctor seemed to read his reaction well, and she smiled.  “That’s good.  We gave you three times the average dose of morphine; we went by what Captain Rogers’s medical records said _he_ needed to—”

“What?” he interrupted; his voice was low and rough from disuse, scraping out of his throat like rust.  She was clearly caught off guard; she blinked, glanced down, then looked back up.  “It’s a safe assumption that you and Captain Rogers were administered similar growth serums.  We used two-thirds of the dosage _he_ needs for it to take effect, and planned to go up from there if it didn’t work.  Luckily, it did, which means we can start experimenting with lowering it.  The last thing we need is you building a dependency on it.”

Captain Rogers.  That was the name of…but he knew that.  Of course he did.  It was just a change, a shock, to hear it so casually in a room that wasn’t also inhabited by his handlers.  And now she was staring at him in a way that was more curious than calculating, a way that showed genuine interest, and it made him feel like a cornered animal.  To divert her attention he asked, “Why am I alive?”

It seemed to work.  She was quiet for a moment before replying, “I’m not sure what you  mean.  You’re alive because SHIELD doesn’t execute its prisoners, and you didn’t suffer any fatal injuries or illnesses.”

He met her gaze unflinchingly, his jaw set.  “But I’m a terrorist,” he reminded her softly.  “I’m wanted.  I’m not just SHIELD’s prisoner, I’m America’s prisoner.  I should have been executed the day they found me.”

“Well, that’s hardly realistic,” she replied in a steady voice, but he noticed she had dropped her gaze to the bed.  “You are in America, as you pointed out, and in America even mass murderers are given fair trial.”

Her voice was hard; in an instant she turned sharply and was gone.  The room was silent again, just as it had been before her visit, but now the Soldier’s heart was racing and ice was shooting through his veins.  He never had time to do anything about calming himself down, because within no time four people were invading the room again, dressed in that sickening green that made him hurt just looking at it.

“You gonna behave?” one of them asked in a cheerful voice that wasn’t _meant_ to be patronizing.  He couldn’t do anything but glare as he shook and strained against the canvas straps.  There was a sigh and a few quiet words, a sharp pain, and grogginess that overtook him within minutes but didn’t send him under like last time.

It didn’t matter.  It didn’t matter.  They could poison and restrain and punish him all they liked, but it wouldn’t change a thing, because now he knew exactly _why_ he was still alive.

_You’ll need it eventually._

If they were healing him, it meant they wanted to use him, and he couldn’t allow that.  He wasn’t theirs to use.  He was—

***

_“You’re amazing.”_

_“Ah, can it, punk.”_

_“I mean it, jerk.”_

***

He had guards now.  Two of them, one on the outside of his door, one on the inside.  In a strange, twisted way, their presence made him feel better.  Even sick, injured, and restrained, he was still dangerous enough to require a warden despite the four other people in the room with him.

The metal table was just as cold against his back as he remembered, the lights just as paralyzingly bright.  The uniformed people—they must be nurses—milled about at their own leisure; everything was the same as it had been last time, only this time he was unbearably, overwhelmingly terrified.  The mild sedatives they’d given him had long since worn off, lasting just long enough for them to transfer him from the bed to the table.  Of course they’d want him awake.

He couldn’t hide the way his chest heaved with every quick breath he drew, but he could at least close his eyes so they didn’t see the desperation in them.  He didn’t know what was wrong with him; there was nothing to even be afraid of, at least not at that moment.  They were going to examine him, certainly hurt him, but none of that was anything new.

One of the nurses was looking at him.  He could feel her gaze on his skin, and it made him want to scream.  To combat this he grit his teeth so tightly it hurt, and he knew he probably looked odd: closed eyes, grit teeth, heaving chest.  He needed to calm down.  Needed to think rationally, observe and analyze, but he couldn’t get a single clear thought through his mind.

“Hey,” the nurse said, “Uh, what’s wrong with him?”

Their quiet chatter died off completely as, one by one, they turned to look at him.  Oh, God, every one of them was _staring_ at him, trapped and helpless and panicking for _no reason_.

“Seizure?” he heard one of them murmur, and there was a shaking of heads.  They approached him, all of them, crowding around him and making it even harder to breathe.  Christ, he was suffocating, he was _dying_ —

“Well, we need to find out what’s wrong with him, whatever the hell it is,” one of them snapped.  He bent right over the Soldier, blocking the scorching light.  “Hey, can you hear me?  Do you know where you are?”

At first he was unable to answer—not that he wanted to.  “Go to hell,” he managed in a strangled tone, his teeth gritted.  This seemed to be a tolerable answer, and the nurse retreated.  “Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s physiological.”

“Most of his problems aren’t.  Let’s just get on with it, then,” one of the others sighed.  “Sooner he isn’t our problem, the better.”

They closed in tighter, and his fear wasn’t quite enough to block out the pain.

It was enough to make him scream, if he had been allowed to do such things.

***

The doctor explained it all to him hours later when he was back in the hospital room, staring blankly at the wall.  They couldn’t risk putting him under, she said.  They had tranquilized him when he was first brought here, but it was too risky to do it again.  They didn’t have a firm grasp of how his metabolism worked, how his body might react, proper dosage, the list went on and on.  Morphine and localized anesthesia was all they had given him, but like she said, they didn’t know how much he needed.  It wasn’t nearly enough.

He could see the bandage in his peripheral vision, as impossible to ignore as the pain that went with it.  They had examined his shoulder, his chest and stomach, and that hadn’t been too bad.  Just checking up again.  When they unstrapped him he thought they were done, thought he’d go back to his bed, but they flipped him over onto his stomach and lashed him down again.  If he thought he was panicked before, it was nothing compared to this.  When he was strapped to the table they cut him open right at the wound on his side, doing God knows what, while he stared shaking at the wall with wide eyes and a jaw clenched so tight it hurt.  They had remarked on how easy he was, how much the little bit of morphine seemed to affect him.  He never noticed a difference after they gave it to him, but of course he’d never tell them.  Show no weakness.

They’d reduced his morphine dosage by a fifth because of this, so even now in the room, in the bed, he was in agony.  At least with Hydra, they knew how he worked, knew how to patch him up and take away all pain, all feeling.  God, what he would give to feel nothing.

He didn’t notice when the doctor stopped talking, didn’t notice when she left.  He did, however, notice when the room was invaded by _him_ , and the day had been so fucking terrible and overwhelming that he actually let out a harsh, strangled groan in the back of his throat, turning his head away from the unwelcome visitor.

“Hey,” his Mission said gently, approaching the bed slowly.  “How are you feeling?”

As if he would answer that.  He stared hard at the wall, nearly trembling with pain and exhaustion and _loathing_ for…everyone.  Himself.  His Mission.  He hated everything and everyone that had put him here and ripped him from his purpose.

His Mission seemed to understand that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with smalltalk and questions.  He sat in a chair next to the bed, and the Soldier’s arms tensed and strained against the straps (and God oh _God_ the pain from it made him whimper but he pretended it didn’t because he couldn’t look weak).

“Why do they have those on you?” his Mission asked, and his voice was accusing, upset.  This somehow wasn’t right to him.  This man made no sense at all.

“So I don’t rip their fucking heads off,” the Soldier spat, surprising both of them.  He couldn’t even care about his vow of silence right now.  He’d never even fully calmed down from earlier (oh, hadn’t _that_ been something—them cutting away at his flesh while his mind raced and screamed and tried to expel all common sense), he was hurting so _bad_ , and this was just the final straw.  He didn’t fucking care anymore.  Maybe talking to him would make him leave sooner.

“You wouldn’t do that,” his Mission said quietly.  Ridiculous.  If he was free, of course he would, he’d kill every last one of them and then himself, because his existence wasn’t worth anything.  Not that it ever had been.

“Dr. Rosen is gonna explain exactly what’s going on,” he continued.  “You’ve been through a lot, and they’re gonna finally start to fix it, okay?”

Fix it by killing him, please, God.  This wasn’t going anywhere, no matter what they did that was how it was going to end up, so why prolong it?

“Do you need anything?”

His eyes cut to his Mission, and he immediately had to look away.  The way that man was looking at him made his skin crawl and his stomach turn; it was wrong.  “No,” he croaked. 

He knew it sounded unconvincing, knew his Mission was going to protest, but thankfully he was interrupted by the door opening and that same doctor walking in with a clipboard.  “Captain Rogers,” she acknowledged, and he nodded to her.  She walked up to them, glanced at the Soldier, then looked down at her clipboard.  “Well, we’ve finished examinations on him, so we’re ready to actually start patching him up.  It’s gonna be a long road.”

His Mission folded his arms and leaned back in the chair.  “It’s just a dislocated shoulder, right?  That’s easy to fix.”

She pulled a face and scratched the side of her neck.  “Yes, but that’s not the problem.  He’s got possible bruising to his ribs and stomach.  He had a large lacerated, burned area on his lower back, probably from combat.  Not too tricky to patch up if it’s tended to in time.”

“Okay,” his Mission said slowly, “but it _wasn’t_ tended to in time.  He was wandering a while and then SHIELD tossed him in confinement without so much as having anyone look at him.  It’s been _months_.”

She nodded, pursing her lips.  “It’s infected and abscessed.  It’s a miracle he wasn’t septic, we had to cut away dead tissue and drain it, and he’ll need a skin graft.”

“What about the—the bruising?” his Mission demanded, anger creeping into the edges of his voice and making the Soldier’s heart race.  “Have you figured out how bad it is yet?”

She pursed her lips as she regarded him.  “As I’m sure you’re aware, we’re unable to perform an x-ray on him as long as he’s got that arm, and we haven’t worked out if there’s a way to easily remove it yet.  For now—”

“I don’t give a damn, I just want him better,” his Mission snapped, and silence fell.  The Soldier didn’t even want to begin wondering why on Earth his Mission wanted him healed, but it had to have something to do with using him.  SHIELD must have given custody to him; it made sense.  He was a sort of trophy, then, and his Mission would be able to use him for whatever he wanted.  He couldn’t use him if he was broken.

“We’re doing our best,” Dr. Rosen said in a clipped voice.  “Do you have any questions?”

“I—” his Mission started, but he was cut off by Dr. Rosen raising a hand and shaking her head.  “I was talking to him.”

Both of them were looking at him now.  He didn’t care about what was happening or how he was hurt or how they were going to take him apart and put him together again.  He just wanted them to _leave_.  Staring at the ceiling, he murmured, “Does something smell like shit, or is that just your natural expression?”

They both stared at him, and their startled silence gave him immense satisfaction.  He didn’t say a single word after that, and finally after a moment Dr. Rosen sighed and said to his Mission, “We’ll keep him under observation for now and operate when his wound starts to close.  It’ll take him a while to heal from that and maybe longer to recover from the psychotropics.”

“What’s his prospected stay here?” his Mission asked quietly.  Dr. Rosen thought a moment, then answered, “Anywhere from two to six months, probably.  There’s still a lot about his biology we haven’t worked out, despite what we know about you.  We don’t know how fast he heals or if he’ll even respond to any medicine we administer.  The length of his stay depends on him.”

It was more comfortable, them talking about him as if he wasn’t there.  Familiar.  He was still able to hear and observe and gather information, but he wasn’t being paid any attention to, and that suited him just fine.  However, Dr. Rosen soon left, and then all of his Mission’s attention was back on him.  Of course.

“You’re just getting started, Buck,” he murmured.  “You’re gonna feel a lot better soon.”

He didn’t answer; how could he?  His Mission had trapped him in his gaze again, with that look that made him feel completely backwards and slightly panicked.  He ignored the man until he finally murmured, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and left, and then he was finally given time to think, try and distract from the pain.  Distract from that _look_.

The agents, his handlers, the nurses, Dr. Rosen, they all looked at him like he was an object, an item, a weapon.  And he was, he knew that.  That’s all he was, all he had ever been.

So how could this man look at him like he was human?


	3. Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The walls start breaking down around Bucky, even if he won't let anyone in yet.

The longer he was there, the harder it was to tell when one day ended and the next began.  The window was no help anymore; dark, heavy curtains had been put over it, keeping out all sunlight.  He had nothing to occupy him, nothing to distract from the intense pain in his side.  He still hadn’t let on that the painkillers actually weren’t killing much of his pain, and he had no intentions of doing so.

His Mission hadn’t been back.  In some ways this was a comfort, because every time he was near that indescribable panic took hold and didn’t fade until he left.  In other ways, it was terribly lonely in a way he couldn’t understand.

Every day was also filled with the anxious suspense of wondering if today was when they were going to take him away and cut him open again.  Since that day when he’d learned the exact extent of his injuries, not another word had been said about his treatment.  He was beginning to wonder if they were really planning on treating him at all.

Finally, maybe a week after he’d last seen his Mission (had it been that long?  He really couldn’t tell), they took him.  He wasn’t sedated this time; he wasn’t even wheeled out.  He was unstrapped and made to stand, the first time he’d done so since he’d been there.  His legs were weak, and his knees buckled the instant his feet hit the floor; arms roughly took hold of him from either side, forcing him to stand, and he wasn’t even given time to gather himself before he was being half-dragged out the door.  His vision was tilting, and he was lightheaded and dizzy from being made to stand so suddenly.  Bewildered, his mind raced as he tried to fall back into the old pattern: observe, analyze, conclude.  Why were they escorting him like this?  Where were they taking him?

Like before, he drew a blank.  He couldn’t get a single thought through his head, just white panic.  His feet weakly scrabbled at the floor in a desperate attempt to halt their progress, which only earned him a hard elbow to his injured side that made him cry out in agony.

Thankfully, the walk was short.  They stopped outside a door that offered no clue to what was on the other side, and the Soldier was roughly shoved against the wall as one of his escorts input a code into a keypad.  The Soldier struggled only briefly; when he lashed out and managed to land a kick at the other man’s knee, he was punished with sharp blows to the backs of his own legs, sending him down hard on his knees.  Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead against the wall and waited helplessly.

After a moment, he was yanked to his feet again.  The door was open, and he knew before he was shoved inside that it was no operating room.  One of his escorts flicked a switch, and a low, dirty buzz electrified the air as light blinded the Soldier’s sensitive eyes.

And in the middle of the room was a chair.

His mind had been foggy for weeks, but he knew with clear certainty what this was.  Knew what it meant.

His heels dragged against the floor; they shook him violently and shoved him hard into the chair.

Two sides of the same coin.

Thick leather straps snaked across his limbs, and they might as well have been moving on their own.  It was so familiar, so routine, so calming that it absolutely terrified him.

A figure stepped directly in front of him.  Thanks to the lighting and proximity of the other man, the Soldier couldn’t at all tell what he looked like.  When he spoke, his voice was loud, harsh, and unfamiliar.

“Where did they go?”

There were several silent moments as the Soldier stared back at the man he couldn’t see.  “I don’t—”

He was hit hard across the face, sending him lurching to the left and crying out in pain as his right arm strained against the restraints.  His breathing deepened, but after a moment he looked right back at his interrogator again—because that’s what this was, wasn’t it?  An interrogation.  It was to be expected, of course, because part of appropriating a weapon was learning how to turn it on the person you stole it from.

“Where did Hydra go after it fell?”

The Soldier let another tense, silent moment pass, then grinned and shook his head.  His interrogator abruptly grabbed a fistful of the Soldier’s hair, shoving his head back against the chair.  “You wanna tell me what’s so funny?” he growled.  It occurred to the Soldier that, given his current track record, he should be breaking down right now.  Everything was similar to the other times—people talking to him, looking at him, touching him.  Loud noises, bright lights, his head should be _swimming_ with overstimulation and irrational panic.

But he was calm, absolutely calm when he replied, “If you want to know anything about Hydra, you don’t ask their guard dog.”  Normally, he’d never say this.  Normally he would _never_ give away that he was, when it came down to it, absolutely useless, because uselessness equaled death.  There were two conditions that changed his mind on this occasion, the first being that he was certain, absolutely certain, that SHIELD wanted to keep him alive.  The second was that he wouldn’t mind if they killed him now.

His interrogator looked over at his other escort, who was standing near the door with folded arms.  After a moment, without warning, his interrogator lashed out, wrenching his right shoulder back against the chair; his arm strained against the leather straps as he let out a yell that echoed through the room.

“I’m not playing games with you,” his interrogator shouted, and finally, blessedly released his arm.  He bent to look the Soldier in the eye, but his vision was swimming as the intense pain slowly ebbed back down to the usual dull ache.  After a long moment, the only sound the Soldier’s labored breathing, the man said softly, “I want you to tell me where the rest of Hydra escaped to.  I want you to tell me where you’ve been all this time.”

“Nowhere,” he growled, making an effort to look the man in the eyes.  “I wandered.  They don’t—they don’t want me anymore, I wasn’t with them.”  Why were they doing this?  Did they really think Hydra would be so careless as to let him know anything?  He wasn’t important, wasn’t needed; when they fell they had chucked him right out.  He was unnecessary, and because they’d been careful around him, he wasn’t a liability. 

The room was silent again, the interrogator staring at the ground with folded arms. The Soldier took advantage of this to continue, “I’m useless.  I’m not saying that to save myself, because I don’t give a fuck if you kill me.”  More dangerous words.  Too bad he didn’t care.

The silence stretched on, this time with his interrogator frowning at him.  Finally, the one over near the door stepped over and murmured something in the interrogator’s ear; the two of them held a brief, quiet conversation that the Soldier didn’t try to understand, and then they both turned to face him.

“Wait here,” one of them said flatly.  As if he had any other choice.  And with that, they left, slamming the door so hard the sound reverberated around the bare room and made him grit his teeth.  Why was it their intimidation and torture didn’t faze him, but a slamming door made him shake?  He was pathetic.

***

_“Bucky.  I…I thought you were dead.”_

_“I thought you were smaller.”_

***

He didn’t know how much later it was when he heard shouting in the hallway.  Three distinct voices—two men and a woman.  They weren’t making any efforts to keep their volume low, and he realized as they grew louder that they were also growing _closer_.  He shifted slightly in the chair, swallowing, and barely had time to prepare himself before the door flew open.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about the fact that the first person to enter the room was _him_.  He made a beeline for the Soldier’s chair, squatting next to him with a concerned look on his face.  “It’s okay,” he said quietly, but the Soldier barely registered it over the other two people—Dr. Rosen and his interrogator.  They were nearly shouting at each other, and it was _loud_ , and maybe his Mission noticed the way his eyes widened and his chest heaved because he turned to the other two and snapped, “Cut it out!”

Silence fell immediately.  Then the interrogator said angrily, “You have no authority to do this.”

His Mission stood, his shoulders straightening, and said in a dangerous voice, “Actually, I’ve got all the authority in the world to do this.  You’re the ones who overstepped your boundaries.”

“Steve’s right,” Dr. Rosen cut in, folding her arms.  “He’s my patient and was under my watch, you had no business doing anything with him.”

“He’s in our custody!” the man snapped.  “He’s a terrorist, for God’s sake!  If we think he has information, we’re going to do all we can to get it out of him!”

“How?” his Mission asked, his voice deadly.  “Hitting him?  Electrocution?  Waterboarding?  He’s had enough of that shit from Hydra, did you even _try_ getting information without hurting him?”  He stepped closer, and the Soldier was glad he’d never been on the receiving end of the look his Mission was giving the man.  “You lay one finger on him, you hurt him ever again, and I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

The silence was tense as the two men stared each other down.  Finally, the other man looked down and huffed a laugh, shaking his head.  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said in a low voice, and gave each of them a glare before leaving.  A moment later his Mission was by his side again, undoing the leather straps and putting a hand on his shoulder to guide him as he stood.  His arm was stiff and his side was even more painful than usual; when he moved he winced, and his Mission said to Dr. Rosen in an accusing tone, “When are you planning on fixing that?”

Dr. Rosen frowned at him.  “His skin graft would have been an hour ago if those two idiots hadn’t taken him out.  That’s the last time I use SHIELD personnel as guards for my patients.”

“So…are you gonna take him now?”  His Mission shifted uneasily, glancing back at the Soldier.  They were hardly paying him any mind; maybe if they were, they would realize that this was the first time he’d been completely unrestrained around them.  He didn’t want to run, though, didn’t want to fight.  He was tired of all that.

“Yeah, guess there’s no point in putting it off, we’ve got everything prepped,” Dr. Rosen sighed.  She turned her attention towards the Soldier now, looking him up and down before saying, “Are you ready?”

He looked back at her for a moment before switching his gaze to his Mission.  He was standing there next to them, unrestrained, being spoken to like he was an equal.  It was the sort of thing that usually sent him into a panic, but he was determined not to appear weak this time, so he swallowed hard and gave a single nod.  He jumped a little when his Mission rubbed a hand across his shoulder, but other than that he was…okay.  More okay than he’d been in a long time.

There was another silence as she watched him, thinking, and then asked, “Do I need to restrain you?”

He shook his head.  Somehow that was good enough for her, and she motioned for him to follow her out.  Before he left, he looked back at his Mission one more time.  He didn’t know why.

And thank God, thank God, they put him under.

***

He woke up slowly to soft light and silence.  It took him a moment for his groggy vision to adjust, but once it did he noticed out of the corner of his eye someone sitting next to his bed.  He could barely move to turn his head, but he didn’t need to.  There was only one person on Earth who was stupid enough to care.

He craned his neck with some difficulty to look at his side; he couldn’t see much other than the same thick bandage around his torso, but the pain in it was different, which had to mean something.

His Mission lifted his head; he must have been asleep.  He rubbed his eyes and smiled at the Soldier, then murmured, “Hey.  How you feeling?”

The Soldier very well could have lapsed back into his vow of silence, but…in this context, it was pointless.  He swallowed before tilting his head back and murmuring, “How am I supposed to feel?”

His Mission gave a small laugh, but the Soldier didn’t know what was supposed to be funny.  “Well, it’d be ideal if you were feeling a little better, but I know that won’t happen for a while.  Morphine should help, though.”

“It doesn’t,” the Soldier replied, surprising both of them.  There was a brief silence before he continued, “It hasn’t been working.  Hardly at all.”

“I’ll tell them,” his Mission promised, and the Soldier nodded.  It had been only a few words, just a quick exchange, but it was…well, it was the first thing the Soldier had really _told_ him.  It wasn’t trust, not by a long shot, but it was…some sort of progress, maybe.

“They’re letting you out,” his Mission said quietly.  “They were going to put you in prison until your trial, but I convinced SHIELD to put you under my supervision.  You should be out of here in a few days, Dr. Rosen says you’re responding well to treatment.”

The Soldier thought about that for a moment.  Prison was where he was meant to be.  That was where you stored murderers, monsters, _weapons_.  His Mission had challenged that; for whatever foolish, strange reason, he went up against his superiors and demanded control.

“You stole me,” the Soldier said slowly, softly.  The Mission raised his eyebrows but tilted his head, conceding.  “I suppose in a way I did, yeah.”

“So…” the Soldier began, frowning in thought, “so that means…I’m yours.”

His Mission studied him a moment, frowning slightly himself.  “No, you’re…we don’t think like that.  You belong to yourself, okay?”

That made no sense; he couldn’t comprehend it.  A weapon couldn’t belong to itself.  He had no autonomy, no will, no _desire_ to do things for himself.  He _needed_ to be ordered and controlled.  It was all he knew.  He could feel panic starting to rise up in him, so he tried again, “If you stole me, I’m not Hydra’s or SHIELD’s anymore.  I don’t…I can’t obey them if I obey you.”  It…was the truth, regardless of whether he wanted it.

Finally, understanding crossed the other man’s face, and the look he gave the Soldier was tender and heartbroken.  “Okay, Buck, yeah,” he said quietly.  “I stole you from them.  You…you take orders from me now.”  He didn’t sound at all happy about it, but Bucky nodded slowly and closed his eyes, relieved.  He didn’t trust himself when he didn’t have someone controlling him.  He didn’t trust this man either, but…this was okay.  This was better.  This meant that SHIELD couldn’t use him to kill anyone; that was his Mission’s privilege now.  Until Hydra or SHIELD stole him back, that is.  And then…that thought gave him second thoughts. 

“I’m supposed to be here,” he said quietly, staring at his Mission through heavy, tired eyes.

For a moment there was silence.  Then, very quietly,

“But do you _want_ to be here?”

And finally, something clicked.  Through the haze of withdrawal and pain and subjugation that had kept him quiet and dormant for so long, a sharp, clear spark caught hold and grew into a flame.

He was a weapon.  A weapon was only used for one thing.  The chair, the room, the handlers, it was all familiar and calming because it was where he was supposed to be.  It was where he had always been.

But what did he _want_?

It was a question he’d never given an answer to.  Hell, he’d never even thought about it—because weapons didn’t think.  Weapons didn’t _want_.  Weapons didn’t _wish_.  Weapons were taken out, used, and put away when the killing was over.  Routine cleanings inbetween, so they didn’t grow too rusty from the blood they had spilled or remember blue eyes and start to _wonder_.

But it had been an awful long time since the Winter Soldier had been taken out and not put back.  An awful long time since he’d been wiped clean.  He was dirty, he was _filthy_ with blood and the stench of slaughter and unbearable, _painful_ confusion, and SHIELD didn’t want to fix any of that.  SHIELD wanted to load him right back up and take aim.

But this man, here beside him, didn’t want that.  He didn’t want to fight him, he didn’t want to use him, he didn’t even want to wipe the slate and start over.  The Soldier had no idea what his motive was, what thoughts could be running through his mind, but he seemed doggedly insistent on getting the Soldier—as he was—to _trust_ him.

Slowly, the Soldier turned his head to look at his Mission.  At…Steve.  The man he’d been sent to kill, who had then rewritten his life in a way Hydra never could have, not with all their machines and drugs and lies.

The doctor had told him that the burning craving his body felt was called withdrawal: seceding from a poison.  What he was feeling now was similar, but he couldn’t possibly name it.  If anything, it was the opposite of that purging, the raw, greedy want that was not his own.  This was filling, this was craving in the best way possible.  Exactly for what, he didn’t know.  Maybe it wasn’t that simple.  Maybe he longed only for the knowledge that the decisions were all his.

For the first time he could remember, he _wanted_.

He swallowed and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling.  “I don’t want this anymore,” he whispered.  “That…that’s all I know.”

Steve reached an arm around to rest a hand on the Soldier’s flesh shoulder.  “Let me take you home,” he said softly.

And all at once, relief flooded through him.  Not because he was going somewhere safe, or because that safe place was with Steve, but because those five words, that one demand, told him everything:

Steve gave the orders now.

And what could he do but listen?


End file.
